


Gifts

by ClaraxBarton



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Christmas, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-19
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2018-03-02 03:31:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2797946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaraxBarton/pseuds/ClaraxBarton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trowa and Duo share their last Christmas together.</p><p>AU. Set in Paris in 1900. A Christmas fic for shinigami-irae.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gifts

A little Christmas fic for Shinigami-Irae! Inspired by our conversations of Trowa in Art Nouveau tattoos and my own cold little heart’s adoration of O. Henry and “The Gift of the Magi.”

Pairing: 2x3  
Warnings: language, angst, fluff, sexy times

Gifts

“It’s fucking freezing.”  
“It’s December.”  
“Yeah, well, it’s freezing. Come back to bed and warm me up.”  
Trowa paused in the middle of dressing and looked back at the bed, at Duo curled up in the five quilts they had scavenged.  
Only Duo’s head was visible, and he waggled his eyebrows suggestively.  
Trowa sighed and unfastened his trousers.  
Duo chuckled triumphantly and scooted over to the side of the bed to helpfully tug Trowa’s shirt over his head and then his undershirt while Trowa stepped out of his trousers and drawers.  
Duo leaned forward and reached out to trace over Trowa’s chest.  
Trowa shivered, Duo’s fingers were cold.  
“Told you it was freezing,” the American muttered. His fingers traced over the tattoos on Trowa’s chest, over the curling chain of vines that reached up from his navel and tracked up his chest, over his pectorals and across his shoulders and upper arms.  
The tattoos continued over his shoulders, across his back, and in warmer months Duo had traced over all of them with his tongue. Today, however, he confined his mapping to his fingers, to Trowa’s chest, but he still smiled, still appreciated the small leaves, the shadowed apples that hung from the vines.   
Duo had first seen him in the summer, wearing just his trousers and suspenders and juggling by the edge of the lake at the Bois de Boulogne with the troupe. Duo had seen him, had been walking and reading at the same time and looked up and spotted Trowa and walked right into the belly of a horse.  
Trowa had gone home with him that night, back to his cramped little flat in the Latin Quarter and laid naked in his narrow bed while Duo explored his body, tasting him and memorizing the path of the tattoos.   
When the troupe moved on, Trowa had stayed, and he had spent every night in Duo’s bed for the last two years.  
Their days were very different, Trowa’s spent on street corners juggling or playing the flute for money and Duo’s spent in classes at the Ecole Polytechnique. Duo had a meager allowance, from the same American industrialist benefactor who had sent him to Paris for his education, and between that allowance and Trowa’s earnings they were able to live, barely.  
Duo leaned forward and kissed the tangled knot of vines over Trowa’s heart, pressing his cold, chapped lips against Trowa’s warm flesh and then opening his mouth and sucking until Trowa groaned and reached out to thread his fingers in Duo’s long hair.   
He could feel Duo smirk and then felt the sharp press of his teeth. Trowa pulled away with a hiss and scowled down at Duo.  
Duo didn’t look at all apologetic. He pulled Trowa back into the bed and they landed on the tangle of blankets.  
“You’re going to be late for class,” Trowa remarked as Duo started to kiss his way down Trowa’s chest, towards his groin.  
“I’ve got plenty of time,” Duo said. He hummed in pleasure as he licked Trowa’s half-hard cock. “God, I love your cock, Tro.”  
“I love you,” Trowa said. He pulled on Duo’s hair until Duo shifted and crawled over him to kiss his lips.  
“I love you,” Duo responded a moment later, breathless, his lips swollen and his face flushed. “I love all of you,” he added and his lips tilted in a smirk, “but at the moment I am very, very much in love with your cock.”  
Trowa rolled his eyes but nudged Duo’s head away, back down towards his groin.  
“You’re always in love with my cock,” Trowa muttered, trying to sound irritated.  
“Yes I am,” Duo agreed and then fitted Trowa’s cock into his mouth, wrapping his lips around the head and then sucking the entire length into his mouth.  
Trowa groaned and reached out to his left hand.  
Duo laced their fingers together, squeezing his hand even as he continued to suck on Trowa’s cock, bobbing his head up and down, his eyes closed and an expression of near ecstasy on his face.  
Soon, Trowa was panting and writhing as he neared climax, and when he came, Duo gently swallowed down his orgasm before sitting back and smiling at Trowa.  
He stretched languidly and Duo laughed and curled up beside him.  
“Doesn’t feel so cold when we’re like this,” Duo said.  
“No, it doesn’t,” Trowa agreed.

-o-

His typical spot on the corner of the Boulevard Saint-Germain and the intersection with the Saint-Michel was occupied by an organ grinder and Trowa glared, a little cranky at having his spot taken, but knowing it was his own fault for being late, for insisting on returning the favor when Duo tried to climb out of bed and holding him down and sucking on him and fingering him until he cried out Trowa’s name.   
So Trowa trudged down a ways, turning up the collar on his too large, unfashionable but perfectly serviceable wool coat and waiting until he found a good spot before he pulled out his flute, unwrapping it from the scarf and began to play.  
His fingers quickly grew cold and numb, his woolen, fingerless gloves doing almost nothing to keep out the chill of the air, and when it started to snow Trowa only managed a few more minutes of playing before giving up and grabbing his hat and the paltry few francs and shoved them into his pocket before putting his cap back on.  
He took shelter under the awning of a pawn shop and as he waited for the snow to abate he looked inside the window at the merchandise, at the pieces of people lives that had been sold.   
After the troupe had left Paris, Trowa had visited a shop similar to this one, had sold one of the books his father left him and he had been disgusted with himself, angry with his circumstances, furious with the shop owner for no doubt cheating him. But he had wanted to stay with Duo and he had wanted to help pay for food. He had no idea how Duo had managed to survive on the allowance he had - Duo had mentioned once that the old man, Maxwell, who had adopted him and sent him to Paris to become an engineer, hadn’t really understood how much it cost to live - since he had never had to think about money himself - but Duo was unwilling to ask for more, to risk upsetting his benefactor.  
As Trowa looked in the window he saw the bright, polished silver handle of a brush. He smiled, thinking of brushing Duo’s hair with such a decadent tool.   
Duo had mentioned something once, something about Maxwell’s wife braiding his hair and telling him it was beautiful and a gift from God. Duo didn’t believe in God, didn’t really believe in gifts, as far as Trowa could tell, but something about the woman’s words must have struck something within him, because he had worn his hair long ever since.  
Not quite sure why, Trowa stepped into the shop and asked after the brush.  
Twenty francs. A fortune.  
He could make that much in a few weeks - but that would mean no food, no fuel for the tiny stove in the apartment, no coffee with Duo and his friends.   
It stopped snowing and Trowa resumed his corner spot, playing his flute for the rest of the day and wondering what it would be like to have money.

-o-

“It’s Christmas Eve tomorrow,” Duo sighed, his words and breath warm on Trowa’s chest.  
It would be the third Christmas Eve they had spent together, but it was the first time Duo had mentioned it.  
“It will,” Trowa agreed. He was slowly combing his fingers through Duo’s loose hair, working at a few tangles idly.  
“I… I want it to be special. It’s my last Christmas in Paris and - and I want it to be something to remember.”  
Trowa nodded.  
He had known, had always known, that there would come a day when Duo would leave Paris - he was here for an engineering degree and after he had procured that, he would leave.  
“Not special like the Exposition Universelle?” Trowa tried to joke.  
Duo laughed and rolled over so that his chin rested on Trowa’s stomach. His eyes danced with amusement.  
They had found a photo booth at one of the exhibits and Duo had stripped him down and posed with Trowa’s cock in his mouth.  
Despite the fact that they had paid the one franc charge in advance, they were not allowed to collect their photograph after it developed and were told that they were lucky the gendarmes hadn’t been called.  
“No, not special like that,” Duo agreed. “Just… normal special I guess. Whatever people do - gifts and food.”  
“Gifts?”  
Duo shrugged one shoulder and he looked a little embarrassed.  
“Just… you know. Something. To remember me by.”  
Trowa had already told Duo he didn’t want to go to America, one night after Duo had had too much to drink and asked Trowa to come home with him, after he completed his studies. Trowa had already spent too much time away from the troupe, already felt the ache of loneliness when Duo stayed out late with his friends or Trowa passed a woman with wild, curling red hair who reminded him of his sister Catharine.   
“I’ll remember you,” Trowa told Duo.  
“Yeah, but… I… I know.”  
“I love you, Duo.”  
“And I love you, Trowa.”  
He would always remember Duo, his smile, his long fingers, his hair, his laugh.  
But would Duo remember him?

-o-

“I can give you fifteen francs.”  
“No. Twenty.”  
“Sixteen.”  
“Twenty.”  
“You don’t understand how negotiating works - I come a little higher, you go a little lower, we meet in the middle.”  
Trowa shook his head and scowled at the shopkeeper.  
“Twenty francs.”  
The small, bald man sighed and ran his hands over Trowa’s flute again, as though he could appraise it by touch alone.  
“Well… it is in decent shape. But -”  
“Twenty francs,” Trowa repeated again.  
The shopkeeper made an irritated sound.  
“Yes. Fine. Fine. Here.”  
Trowa accepted the bills and stared at them and then he sighed and passed them back.  
The shopkeeper arched an eyebrow in confusion.  
“I want the silver brush.”  
“Ah! A gift for your girl!” The shopkeeper chuckled and Trowa glared at him.  
But now, knowing he was going to keep the money he had argued not to pay out, the shopkeeper was in a fine mood. He put the brush in a brown box for Trowa and then snatched it away when Trowa reached for it and wrapped a ribbon around it.  
Trowa stared.  
“I assume it’s a Christmas present.”  
Trowa just grabbed the box and walked out. He hated the shopkeeper’s good cheer, his good fortune at Trowa’s expense.  
But - but he had a suitable gift for Duo. And maybe, maybe over the years as Duo brushed his hair he would remember Trowa, would remember the gypsy he loved when he was a student in Paris.  
Trowa shoved the box between his shirt and his vest before buttoning his jacket and coat over it.  
Duo wouldn’t be home for a few hours yet, but Trowa did not have his flute to play for money anymore. So, instead, he paid for a few sad looking oranges and he stood on a corner and juggled them.  
He made back the cost of the fruit, but not much more, and as he walked home towards Duo’s flat, he gave the fruit to a few bedraggled looking children.  
When he walked into the flat he was immediately struck by how warm it was - usually he and Duo waited to light the stove when they were both home and huddled around it for warmth while Duo read and Trowa sketched things he had seen during the day.  
But tonight the stove was already lit, and as Trowa sniffed the air he realized that wasn’t the only thing that was different.  
Usually he and Duo subsisted on potatoes and onions and, every once in a while, a cut of meat. On Sundays they went down to Madame Flourin’s to have soup with her family, before Duo sat with her children for a few hours and tutored them.   
But tonight Trowa could smell food, could smell something delicious like a roasting chicken and he wondered if he was hallucinating all of this.  
He walked into the flat and there was Duo - bent over the small stove, fussing with something.  
“Duo?”  
He straightened and turned, a grin on his face.  
“What happened to your hair?”  
Trowa stared at him in horror, at Duo’s brown hair, now as short as Trowa’s on the sides, his scruffy bangs the only unchanged part of his hair.  
Duo’s smile faltered as he reached up and ran his fingers through his short hair.  
“I...ah… sold it.”  
“You sold your hair?”  
Duo shrugged one shoulder carelessly.  
“It’s just hair, Trowa. It’ll grow back and… and I had to. I didn’t have any money and -”  
The warm apartment. The food.  
“Duo. No.”  
Duo glanced towards the bed and Trowa followed his gaze. There was a long, slender brown box on the bed.  
“What -”  
“I’ve never… I’ve never had a real Christmas before, Trowa. I just wanted this one to be real, you know? For us. To remember it.”  
Duo looked so sincere, so tragically earnest and Trowa sighed again.  
He pulled Duo to him and hugged him tightly, burying his nose in Duo’s short hair and breathing deeply.  
At least he smelled the same.  
“I’m never going to forget you, Duo,” he assured the other man.  
Duo’s hands fisted in his jacket.  
“Yeah, well, people forget, you know? They forget the color of your hair or your smile or -”  
“I won’t forget, Duo.”  
Duo pulled back enough so that he could kiss Trowa, just a brief, fierce press of his lips.  
“I, ah… I paid Madame Flourin to make us dinner. It’s just heating up but it will be ready soon.”  
Duo stepped away and he reached for his braid but then aborted the gesture and offered Trowa a wry smile.  
Trowa nodded and removed his coat and his jacket. He gestured towards the box on the bed.  
“Is that for me?”  
“Nah. Thought I’d get myself a little something.”  
Trowa rolled his eyes, but he was grateful for the joke, for Duo’s good humor.  
Duo picked up the package and handed it to Trowa.  
Trowa unwrapped it slowly, tugging the ribbon free and then lifting the lid of the box.  
Inside the box was a case, a black wooden case that made Trowa frown. It looked familiar, like something he had seen before. He picked it up and opened it, revealing a red velvet lining. He traced his fingers over the smooth fabric.  
“For your flute. I know you just wrap it up in your scarf but I figure this way - this way it’d be safer and -”  
“It’s perfect,” Trowa interrupted him. He felt a tight pressure on his heart.  
“Hey, what’s that?” Duo tapped on the box under Trowa’s vest.  
Trowa cleared his throat and set the flute case aside and pulled out the box. He handed it to Duo.  
Duo grinned and Trowa realized that this might be the first gift he had ever received.   
Duo laughed when he opened the box, a brittle laugh that made Trowa wince.  
He picked up the brush and smiled at Trowa.  
“It’s beautiful.”  
“I… I thought you could use it for your hair.”  
Duo smirked.  
“Yeah. I will. Once it grows out some.”  
Trowa nodded.  
“It really is beautiful. It must have cost a fortune, Tro.”  
Trowa swallowed hard and shrugged.  
Duo frowned and tugged on the scarf around Trowa’s neck. The scarf he usually wrapped his flute in.  
“Trowa?”  
“I wanted you to have something to remember me by.”  
Duo sighed and put the brush down on the bed.  
He tugged on the ends of the scarf, pulling Trowa close until their noses bumped.  
“We’re a pair of idiots, Trowa,” he said, his voice almost a laugh, almost a cry.  
Trowa nodded.  
Duo shook his head and pressed a kiss against Trowa’s jaw.  
“At least you didn’t sell your cock or something. Did you?”  
“No,” Trowa assured him and guided Duo’s left hand downwards and squeezed his fingers around the soft flesh in his trousers.  
Duo laughed and kissed his lips.  
“Well. I don’t think I’m likely to ever forget this, Trowa.”  
“Good.” Trowa kissed him back until Duo was clutching his shoulders and his eyes closed.  
“Merry Christmas, Duo.”  
“Merry Christmas, Tro.”


End file.
